A Script for The Frozen Cipher

FADE IN:

**EXT. RAILWAY TRACKS - DAY**

A vast, silent world of white.

Snow blankets everything. Two lines of rusted RAILWAY TRACKS emerge from a snowdrift, curve through the desolate landscape, and disappear into another. They are a forgotten scar on the land.

The area is a graveyard for discarded things: a splintered wooden sled, a soda can crushed flat, the skeletal frame of a bicycle.

ROGER (18), bundled in a worn winter coat, walks along the tracks. His boots crunch in the fresh powder. The silence is immense, broken only by the wind whistling through bare, skeletal trees. This is a place to get lost.

He’s looking at his feet, lost in thought, when--

*SNAG.*

His boot catches on something solid. He stumbles, catching himself. He shuffles back, uses the side of his boot to clear a patch of snow.

Something dark is just visible. Wood.

He kneels, wincing as the cold seeps through his jeans. With a gloved hand, he brushes away more snow. It’s a BOX, dark and ancient, half-swallowed by the frozen earth.

His breath plumes in the frigid air. He runs a hand over the rough, damp wood. No hinges. No lock. Just a faint, almost invisible seam where a lid meets the base.

He works at it. First with the toe of his boot, chipping away frozen mud. Then with his numb fingers, prying at the seam.

Finally, the lid gives way with a high-pitched, protesting GROAN, like old bones cracking.

A smell wafts out-- earthy, mixed with something sharp and metallic. Like damp pennies or old batteries.

A jolt of adrenaline hits him. Roger pulls the lid fully open.

**INSIDE THE BOX**

Nestled in dark, damp soil, are several objects.

He reaches in and picks up a small, ornate METAL COIN. It’s not round, more of an uneven oval. It’s so cold it burns his fingertips. Etched into its surface is a strange symbol.

Beside it, a dried, brittle LEAF, a startling deep crimson against the snow. A small, polished grey STONE with specks of something iridescent, like trapped stars.

And finally, a piece of FADED PAPER, folded multiple times, the creases threatening to disintegrate.

Roger carefully picks it up. His fingers tremble, not just from the cold now. He unfolds it.

It’s a DRAWING, crude but detailed, in what looks like charcoal. It depicts a hunched, faceless figure standing at the edge of a treeline.

But it’s a detail in the shadows of the trees that makes his stomach clench.

A single, distinct EYE. Watching the scene. Luminous.

It feels like a warning.

Roger quickly tucks the coin and the drawing into the inner pocket of his coat, zipping it shut. He leaves the stone and the leaf. He can’t take it all.

He closes the lid of the box, pushes snow back over it, trying to make it look undisturbed.

His heart hammers against his ribs.

He stands, turning back the way he came. The silence is no longer comforting. It feels heavy. Expectant.

A branch CREAKS nearby. Roger flinches, whipping his head around.

Nothing. Just the wind.

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, walking faster now. He feels watched.

<br>

**INT. STACEY'S ROOM - LATER**

A vibrant kaleidoscope of color and organized chaos. Posters of obscure bands plaster the walls. Half-finished art projects and stacks of books cover every surface.

STACEY (18), sharp and witty, is sprawled on her bed, headphones on, a textbook balanced on her chest. The faint THUMP-THUMP of indie rock buzzes from her ears.

Roger enters, closing the door behind him. He’s still shivering.

Stacey pulls off her headphones.

<center>STACEY</center>

> Roger? You look like you've seen a ghost. Or, worse, decided to actually *do* homework.

She grins, eyes glinting.

<center>ROGER</center>

> Worse.

He pulls the coin and the folded drawing from his pocket, sitting heavily on her desk chair, which CREAKS in protest.

<center>STACEY</center>

> Whoa. What’s that?

She sits up, curiosity replacing her sarcasm. Roger hands her the coin. She turns it over in her fingers.

<center>STACEY (CONT'D)</center>

> It's... heavy. And really cold. Is that, like, an old colonial piece? From the fort?

<center>ROGER</center>

> No, I don't think so. The symbol on it... look.

He points to the crude etching: a half-moon cradling a single, stark eye.

<center>ROGER (CONT'D)</center>

> And then there's this.

He unfolds the drawing, laying it flat on her duvet. She leans in, her expression shifting. Her brow furrows.

<center>STACEY</center>

> That’s... creepy. Really creepy. Where did you find all this?

<center>ROGER</center>

> Near the old tracks. Half-buried in the snow. Like someone just... forgot it. Or hid it.

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(scoffs)

> Nobody forgets something like this. Especially not with a drawing that looks like a still from a horror movie.

She holds the coin up to the light, then looks back at the drawing. Her eyes narrow.

<center>STACEY (CONT'D)</center>

> The eye. It’s the same.

<center>ROGER</center>

> Right? It felt... personal. Like it was left there for someone to find. Maybe for me.

<center>STACEY</center>

> Don’t get all main character complex on me, Roger. You just stumbled on some weirdo’s stash. Probably some Goth kid’s failed art project.

She tries to sound dismissive, but her eyes keep returning to the drawing.

<center>ROGER</center>

> It didn't feel like that. The box was old. Really old. And the smell... like something that's been buried for a long, long time.

Stacey gets up, moves to a corkboard, and plucks a small MAGNIFYING GLASS from where it hangs on a pin. She returns to the bed, all business now.

She meticulously studies the coin, then the drawing.

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(murmuring)

> There are faint scratches around the eye on the coin... like someone tried to obscure it. And the paper... the fibres are really old. It's not modern printer paper, that’s for sure.

<center>ROGER</center>

>>(a whisper)

> So what do you think it means?

<center>STACEY</center>

> Could be anything. A cult symbol. A secret society. Or just... someone’s strange hobby. But the location, Roger. That’s what’s bugging me. Why there? That place is practically forgotten.

<center>ROGER</center>

> Maybe it wasn't meant to be found by just anyone. Maybe only by someone who was... looking for something else entirely.

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(voice drops)

> Or maybe it was meant to stay hidden. And now it isn't.

She looks up, her gaze meeting his. A beat of silence hangs between them.

<center>STACEY (CONT'D)</center>

> What if we just... put it back? Forget about it?

Roger shakes his head instantly.

<center>ROGER</center>

> I can't. It feels like... a door. Opened. I have to know what's on the other side. Don't you?

Stacey hesitates. Then a slow smile spreads across her face. Not her usual easy grin, but something sharper, more mischievous.

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(breathing it out)

> Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. So, what’s our first move, Sherlock?

<br>

**INT. STACEY'S ROOM - NIGHT**

Hours later. The room is dark, lit only by the glow of a LAPTOP and a desk lamp. Empty mugs sit beside them. Stacey is hunched over the keyboard, scrolling through local history archives.

Roger pushes away from the laptop, frustrated. He walks to her window and looks out.

**ROGER'S POV - THE STREET**

Snow falls softly, illuminated by a single, hazy STREETLIGHT. The world is quiet.

A lone FIGURE walks slowly on the opposite pavement. It’s MR. BARTLESON (70s), the old recluse from the end of the street, bundled in a dark coat, head bowed against the wind.

He stops. Directly across from Stacey’s house.

He lifts his head, slowly, deliberately. His gaze sweeps across the front of the house, seeming to land directly on the window.

Roger DUCKS back instinctively, heart pounding. He presses himself against the wall beside the window frame.

*He couldn't have seen me. Could he?*

After a long moment, Roger risks another peek.

Mr. Bartleson is still there. A dark, motionless silhouette. Then, he turns and walks slowly down the street, away from his own home, disappearing into the swirling snow.

A shiver runs down Roger’s spine.

<center>ROGER</center>

>>(voice small)

> Hey, Stacey?

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(distracted, scrolling)

> Hmm?

<center>ROGER</center>

> You ever get the feeling someone’s watching you?

<center>STACEY</center>

>>(looks up)

> What? No. Why?

Roger hesitates. He looks back out the empty window.

<center>ROGER</center>

> Nothing. Just... that eye in the drawing. It’s really getting to me.

He doesn’t mention Mr. Bartleson. Stacey turns back to the laptop, her focus renewed. Roger remains by the window, the image of the old man burned into his mind.

Suddenly, Stacey gasps.

<center>STACEY</center>

> Roger, look at this.

He rushes over. On the screen is an old, scanned document. A town survey map from 1968.

<center>STACEY (CONT'D)</center>

> The railway line, that's where you found it, right? And this... this is the old Bartleson homestead. Where Mr. Bartleson lives now.

She uses the mouse to zoom in. Her finger traces a dotted line on the screen.

<center>STACEY (CONT'D)</center>

> It used to cover a much larger area. See these markings? They show an 'outbuilding' and 'fenced-off plot' directly where the abandoned tracks cross over. Right where you found the box.

Roger’s blood runs cold.

The box wasn't just on abandoned land. It was on his family's property.

He stares at the laptop screen, then slowly picks up the charcoal drawing from the bed. He looks at the hunched figure. At the treeline.

At the single, stark eye watching from the shadows.

The reclusive man who just watched them from the street is tied to the very ground where this fifty-year-old secret was buried.

CLOSE ON Roger’s face, the chilling realization dawning.

FADE OUT.